


Fine

by anamia



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Cuddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 20:11:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/828362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anamia/pseuds/anamia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Enjolras had never before seen his friend cry. He had seen Combeferre ecstatic and furious and, once, terrified beyond words, had watched him light up with hope and shake with quiet despair, but never had he seen Combeferre weep."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fine

**Author's Note:**

> This is deeply, _deeply_ self indulgent. I should probably be sorrier about it than I am.

Combeferre sat in one corner of the Musain, books spread out around him as he studied. This in itself was hardly unremarkable; Combeferre was the most studious of them all by far and he made a habit of bringing his schoolbooks with him to all but the most important of meetings. Nor was his silence particularly notable in and of itself, though it was undeniable that he had been more quiet than usual. He looked up when his name was called and declined to arbitrate an absurd bet between Prouvaire and Bahorel concerning which of them would look more alluring in Musichetta's new hat, but otherwise stayed apart from the conversation.

It was not until even Courfeyrac's exuberance could not tempt Combeferre into setting aside his books for a little while that Enjolras began to watch his friend more closely, eyes narrowed slightly as he attempted to discern whether Combeferre's self-imposed isolation should be a cause for concern or not. The way Combeferre studiously avoided meeting his gaze seemed to suggest that it might well be, and Enjolras felt his gut twist with concern. He forced himself not to bring it up then and there, knowing full well that Combeferre was unlikely to willingly discuss the issue in public, assuming there was one at all. Enjolras reminded himself that Combeferre could just be tired and pushed the worry aside as much as he could. Combeferre would not appreciate a public scene even if there was nothing wrong at all.

They walked home together, Enjolras carrying half of Combeferre’s books. As they walked Enjolras attempted to engage his friend in conversation, but Combeferre gave only one word answers, and within a few minutes Enjolras stopped trying, a worried frown on his face. Combeferre kept his eyes forward and his back straight, expression completely unreadable even to Enjolras. When they reached the rooms they shared Combeferre took his books back and went directly to his room, closing the door firmly behind him. After a moment Enjolras saw the dim light of a candle, though he heard no sound. He stayed standing there for a moment, certain now that there was indeed something wrong but not knowing what to do about it. Finally he sighed and turned away. Combeferre appreciated privacy, and if anyone could take care of himself it was Enjolras’ best friend. He sat down at his desk and lit a candle of his own, frowning at the pamphlet he hoped to have completed in a few days time.

He lasted only a few minutes before he stopped even attempting to work. He could not concentrate, and after the third spelling error in a word he had known since childhood he set his pen down. There was no point wasting ink and paper, not when he clearly could not focus on his work.

Rising, he crossed into the kitchen and set water to boil, wanting something to do more than anything else. As distractions went, making tea was not a particularly effective one, as it mostly involved waiting, but he did not have the concentration to try anything else. Every few seconds his eyes darted towards Combeferre’s closed door and he felt his heart clench.

The water boiled at last and he almost mechanically made two cups of tea, adding sugar to Combeferre’s and leaving his own black. Combeferre normally took his like Enjolras, but in moments of great stress he preferred sugar, though Enjolras doubted that any but he and Courfeyrac knew that. This almost certainly seemed to qualify as a moment of great stress.

Holding the two cups carefully so as not to scald his fingers, he crossed to Combeferre’s door. There he hesitated, one hand half raised to knock. What if Combeferre was already sleeping? What if he truly did not want company? Enjolras did not want to make things worse, did not want to intrude, did not want to assign emotions to his friend without proof. But on the other hand Enjolras knew Combeferre better than anyone and he knew in his gut that things were not right. He knocked.

There was no answer, but Enjolras heard a soft rustling, as though someone was moving on starched sheets. He waited for a beat, then another. Still no answer. He took a deep breath and carefully pushed the door open.

Combeferre was crying.

Enjolras had never before seen his friend cry. He had seen Combeferre ecstatic and furious and, once, terrified beyond words, had watched him light up with hope and shake with quiet despair, but never had he seen Combeferre weep. Now, however, Combeferre wept, breath coming in uneven gasps and shoulders shaking.  He had his back to the door, curled in on himself so that only his back showed, but Enjolras could picture his face anyway and the image took the breath from his body for a moment. He took half a step into the room and the creaking of the floorboards made Combeferre whirl around, startled. He inhaled sharply when he saw Enjolras and Enjolras could practically see Combeferre frantically forcing his emotions into himself, hand coming to his face to wipe the tears away.

“I… was there something you needed?” Combeferre asked, voice thick but almost steady.

Enjolras crossed over to the bed, offering him the cup. “I thought you might appreciate some tea.”

Combeferre took a deep breath, trying to smile. It did not come out very well. “Thank you. I am sorry I worried you.”

Enjolras bit the inside of his cheek, recognizing it as a dismissal but unwilling, no, unable to just leave. “Are you all right?” Even as the question left his lips he knew it was ridiculous. Combeferre was very clearly _not_ all right.

Combeferre sighed. “I will be,” he assured Enjolras, and it hurt Enjolras’ heart to see that, even in the midst of his own distress, Combeferre was trying to comfort _him_.

“But you are not now,” he said. “How can I help?”

Combeferre shook his head. “I will be fine,” he said again. “You needn’t concern yourself Enjolras, truly.”

With anyone else Enjolras would have left. Even with Combeferre he would have normally have given the man space, trusting Combeferre to know what he wanted. But now he saw the way Combeferre’s shoulders slumped, the way his hands trembled, the way his breath still came in shaky jerks, and he could not bring himself to move away. He tried to think what Courfeyrac would do in this situation, but quickly discarded that line of inquiry. What Courfeyrac would do in this situation might be effective, but Enjolras knew that he could not hope to pull it off as well as his friend and would no doubt just make things worse. So instead he carefully set down his own mug and sat down on Combeferre’s bed.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre began, but Enjolras shook his head.

“If you do truly desire solitude, you need only say the word,” Enjolras said, and then hurried on before Combeferre could interrupt. “But please, do not think that I have other things to do, or that my time could be better spent elsewhere. If you wish for company, I assure you that there is no other place I wish to be than by your side.”

For a moment Combeferre stayed silent and Enjolras thought he really would ask for privacy. Then he sighed, and Enjolras saw a wave of utter weariness pass over him. “I would… not be averse to company right now,” he said, and Enjolras saw how hard it was for him to make the admission. He felt deep love flare up in him at the knowledge that his friend trusted him with his emotions so, and scooted closer.

“Then my time is yours,” he said, and opened his arms to his friend. Combeferre did not fall into them, but he leaned into Enjolras, letting his weight rest on Enjolras’ chest and laying his head on his friend’s shoulder. He was crying again, though more quietly this time, tears slipping out of his eyes and trickling down to soak Enjolras’ collar. For a long time they sat, saying nothing as Enjolras held his weeping friend. On the small table by the bed their tea grew cold, but neither took note.

Finally Combeferre pulled away and Enjolras let him go, though he did not let go of his friend completely. “Thank you,” Combeferre said quietly, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “You needn’t stay longer, my friend. I will be fine.”

That sentence again. Enjolras swallowed a sigh and instead reached for Combeferre’s hand. “I have no doubt of that,” he assured him. “Just as I have no doubt that you are not yet all right. I will stay.”

Combeferre took a breath and shook his head almost ruefully. “I do not deserve friends such as you,” he said, squeezing Enjolras’ hand. “Thank you.” He smothered a yawn with his free hand.

“You should sleep,” Enjolras said. “We can talk in the morning, if you would like.”

Combeferre nodded. “I… I think I will be able to then,” he said. He shifted and Enjolras matched his movements, both of them making the somewhat awkward transition from seated to lying down. Combeferre’s bed was not designed for two, but they pressed close together and neither was in danger of falling out onto the floor. Enjolras propped himself up on an elbow to blow out the candle then settled back down and wound his arms once more around Combeferre. Combeferre curled up against his friend, breathing almost even at last as he slipped into sleep, exhausted by the intensity of his emotions. Enjolras stayed awake for a little longer, watching his friend sleep, knowing with certainty that they would indeed both be fine.


End file.
